Hannah Montana? Miley Stewart? Who are THEY?
by MileySmilez
Summary: A fateful fall at a concert scrambles Miley's memory, making her forget everything from her favorite food to her biggest secret of all-her secret identity.
1. The Fall

**A/N: OHMIGOSH I AM SO FREAKING SORRY I DIDN'T MEAN 2 DEPRIVE YOU OF STORIES FOR LIKE TEN MILL YEARS I WAS JUST REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY BUSY. I know you're freaking out that I started a new story instead of adding to my combo stories (the clique/Harry Potter), but I will. This was just to remind you that I'm still alive and I still can write! ILY and I hope you forgive me for spacing out. **

I smile at my fans as if they are my best friends. It's a trick of the trade, you see, in show biz. It's good publicity to make your fans think that they are your reason for existence.

"Thank you so much for supporting me!" I shout into the mike. "You guys are fantastic. I hope to see you on my next stop for the tour! I love you all." I get off the stage quickly after blowing a few more kisses. Part of my camp (my agent, Margot Klar; my publicist; Meghan Prophet, and my mother/manager) wait backstage, congratulating me for performing so well.

"It's not over yet," I tell them, chugging my bottle of purified (yet lightly flavored; guilty as charged) water. "I still have the encore to do. Listen to them cheering; it's as if they know I'm supposed to come out again. Okay, here I go." I reenter from left stage and wave. "You guys are such an amazing audience," I say, "that I just _had _to come out again and sing one more song for you. What shall it be?"

The audience shouts out varied song names enthusiastically. Of course, it's not like I actually get to pick. That would be cruel to my band, since they've only prepared one song. "Sounds like _Nobody's Perfect," _I lie. "Good choice. Ready band? Hit it."

The song goes smoothly until the explosive chorus. I'm supposed to strut down the portable walkway and kind of dance, I think, but you've got to understand; this is a totally high walkway. It's elevated to about ten feet above the audience so that I'm untouchable (we had this one scenario in Ontario where an over obsessed fan actually grabbed my hand and pulled me off stage; we've been taking major precautions since then). If I were to fall off of it, say bye-bye to Hannah Montana (and Miley Stewart).

So I'm walking down the runway, smiling, singing, and dancing, when it happens. I feel a little rumble in my feet and I begin to lose my balance. _What's happening? _I think silently, hoping my worry isn't displayed on my face. My dancers are safe, however, as they remain behind, giving me the full spotlight. But I feel completely vulnerable and alone; what's malfunctioning? What's going on? What am I going to do?

You may be thinking, _Why the heck is she freaking out? So the stage made a little rumbling noise and moved to an angle. No problem. _

Yes problem. We test everything before every show, and the attachable walkway has never been problematic. When something goes wrong in a business like this, it's a problem. The wobbling and rumbling gets worse. All of the sudden, during an instrumental break, the stage _collapses._

I mean literally _collapses. _It's like an excerpt from a horror movie that was rated R. One second I'm up and dancing, the next I'm tumbling to my "death" from a high point and connecting with the ground.

Everything else is a blur. I can't see anything and everyone is fighting over me. Some fans are attempting to break through the barrier of overprotective and violent security guards (a celebrity passed out in the first row isn't a nightmare for them; more like their big break, cause they can snap all the pictures they want and maybe even _touch _me).

"Get her to a hospital immediately," a paramedic whispers to another. "This is serious; she may have lost part of her memory. When she comes to, she might not even remember who she is. Hannah Montana may be no more."

Ohmigosh. If Hannah Montana is no more, then what is Miley Stewart?

**TO BE CONT'D...**


	2. Home from the Hospital

"Just as we suspected," says the doctor distantly

"Just as we suspected," says the doctor distantly. "She's got a strong case of amnesia. She won't remember anything, not even her name. Be prepared for a struggle when you try to take her home with you." Why am I at the doctor? Who should be prepared for a struggle? Why would I struggle?

I am confused that it shouldn't be legal. You'd think they let a…wait, how old am I? I'm a girl, I know that, from my long hair and for other obvious reasons…but how old am I? And what's my name?

_Who am I?_

"Miley," a voice coos softly. "Miles? Are you alright? We're going home now." My eyes flutter open and I glare at the voice's owner. It's some man with obnoxiously long highlighted hair and a country accent. He's accompanied by a boy with greasy-looking hair that flops everywhere. Who are these hillbillies? They are definitely not associated with me, are they?

"Where's home? Who are you?" I demand. "I'm not going anywhere with either of you. Yeah, that's right, butterball." The boy's eyes bugs out and he looks mortified. "Did she seriously just say that to me?" he whispers from the corner of his mouth to Pa Hillbilly.

"Yeah, I did," I say stoutly. "You're probably just some psycho stalker hillbillies from down south who drove up here to wherever I live to pick up some cute, innocent little girl," I accuse angrily. The boy stifles a chuckle. "Miley, you don't know how little and not innocent you are, do you?" he asks me, rolling his eyes and heaving a sigh. "This is going to be difficult."

"I know exactly how old I am," I lie. "I'm…um…ten and a half?" It's a total guess; I can't remember a thing. "Try adding four and a half years," suggests Pa Hillbilly. Like I'm going to take advice from him…yet, he seems to know what he's talking about, so I tally up the number. Fifteen. I'm fifteen years old! Whoa, I must have missed a whole lot of birthdays.

"I was joking when I said ten and a half," I say indignantly. "I really meant fifteen. How foolish of you to think otherwise." Talk about air. I was just boosting myself up so that they'd be frightened. Maybe then the hillbillies would leave.

"Miley Ray Stewart, you had better cut this behavior out immediately, or there will be punishments when you return home. I promise you that," says Pa Hillbilly. "Stop calling me Miley!" I shriek. "I don't know who you are. Get out of here, you freaky hillbillies."

"Miley, get in the car, now." They yank me out of my nice, cozy hospital bed and pull me out the door and into their car. Amazingly, the doctors and nurses make no move to save me, even though I am yelping for help at the top of my lungs (which have an amazing amount of capacity). This must be some psycho facility where the doctors enjoy seeing their patients carried off by random strangers. As we drive off, I sit in the back and cry silently.

We pull into the driveway of a very nice beach house. Pa Hillbilly sits me down inside on a plush couch and says, "We need to talk, Miley." I shake my head. "No, you need to explain first!" I say importantly.

"That's what I mean," he answers tiredly. "Just let me talk, okay? Here we go. You are Miley Ray Stewart. I am your father, that is Jackson your brother. We live here in Malibu. You have a secret identity; Hannah Montana, pop sensation. You were performing as her when you suffered a bad fall and a blow to the head. Your memory was wiped out. Do you understand?"

I laugh to spite him. "Yeah, I understand that I'm definitely not the psycho in this situation. What have you been drinking, Pa Hillbilly?" I ask, still chortling to myself. He looks to my "brother" Jackson—or was it Joseph?—for assistance, but Jackson is on the phone, dialing somebody's number. He says hi to the person on the other line, and then presses a few buttons.

"I'm three-way-calling with Lily and Oliver," he explains to Pa Hillbilly. "They say they can come over and try to boost Miley's memory. I doubt that she can forget Lily and Oliver, her two best friends since we moved here. If she did, well, then we're out of luck."

The house is silent for a few minutes. Then there's a doorbell. Jackson lets two people into the house. They appear to be fifteen, just like me, but I can't put a name to their face. It sort of rings a bell, but a very far away and quiet bell, if you know what I mean.

"Miley? It's Lily Truscott. Remember me? Your best friend?" the girl asks softly and cautiously, all at once. "And remember me? Oliver? Your other best friend?"

"No," I admit independently. Why does everyone want me to know who they are? I don't get it. Next thing you know some jerk is going to burst in and declare that he's my boyfriend or something. Which probably wouldn't be a bad thing, you know, if he's cute.

"Miley!" gasps so-called Oliver. "How could you forget us?"

"How bad is her amnesia?" Lily asks nervously, fiddling with her long, braided blonde hair. "It seems to be overwhelmingly bad." Pa Hillbilly nods solemnly. "I believe it is, Lily. I'm sure there's something that will refresh her memory. We just have to find that."

"Maybe Jake will," suggests Jackson. "She definitely has some memories left in that department. It would take years to wipe all of _those _out. If we hack her cell phone and call his number, maybe we can get him to come over here, you know, for the better cause."

"Jake," spits Oliver, "does not need to be involved in this situation. Maybe I know a way to help Miles." He takes a deep breath. "Miley Stewart…————————!"

**What does Oliver tell Miley? You can predict in the reviews, but you won't find out till the next chapter!!**


	3. Apology from the Author

**Author's Note/Apology: **I feel so bad for having not been on or updating to this story in so long. I shouldn't have started it if I wasn't one hundred percent sure that I would finish it, so I really apologize. My schedule is suddenly really tight, but if there's one story you REALLY want finished, please message me and I will contribute to it and finish it.  I'm so sorry, and I hope I didn't lose any of my loyal readers, haha. Thank you guys. xox


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